


Terms of Employment

by Deeranger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blackmail, Bottom Sam, Businessperson Dean Smith, Condoms, Dominance, Fucking, Graphic Description, Humiliation, Hurt Sam Wesson, Intimidation, Lube, M/M, Non-Consensual, Office Sex, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. (Supernatural), Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Dean Smith, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/pseuds/Deeranger
Summary: Dean Smith loves his fancy skyline office and his prestigeous job at Sandover but there's one thing he craves more than power and money. It's a certain tech support guy named Sam. And he has just called the young man into his office to offer him a deal that he can't refuse. Literally.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70





	Terms of Employment

The look on his boss’s face leaves absolutely no room for misunderstandings. The man is serious. Oh, no. No, no, no. Sam can’t afford to lose his job. If he loses his job, he can’t pay his rent and will be evicted from his crammed, little apartment in a flash. Hell, his landlord has already complained that he’s behind on his rent one too many times. It’s not like tech support is a goldmine, after all. Fear immediately settles in his gut. Oh, god, and he doesn’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to go whatsoever. He can’t live on the street, can’t eat his dinner out of dumpsters, or beg passersby in the subway for their change… He’s just not cut out like that. He’d be dead in a gutter in no time.

  
So, instead of protesting – like he really wants to – Sam lets his boss stride forward and right into his personal space. There's a weird determination in the man's green eyes, his jaw is set and his movements calculated. And before Sam knows it rough hands spin him around and push him down on the desk, papers and pencils going flying as his chest hits it.

  
‘Oomph’! 

  
Dean takes no notice of Sam’s discomfort, doesn’t even consider how his face scrunches up when he begins to pull at the tacky, yellow shirt to reveal some of that tanned skin. He isn’t exactly gentle. No, his hands are everywhere, grabbing and fondling wherever he has the chance to, fingertips digging into smooth muscle without preamble.

  
“Been watchin’ you,” Dean says under his breath when he reaches around and begins to open Sam’s belt.

  
“God, they’re never this pretty…” he mumbles to himself, fingers quickly yanking open the belt buckle and going for the pull tab on the zipper. Instantly Sam tenses. Is this really happening? Without even registering it he has grabbed a hold of the edge of the table plate, holding on to it as if it’s a matter of life and death, knuckles turning white. 

  
“W-Wait—“ he begins, but a grunt and a firm slap on the ass silences him. He can feel how his boss leans down over him, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear from behind:

  
“I thought we had an agreement?” he asks lowly. Even though it comes out in a purr it sounds dark somehow. Dangerous. And Sam remembers all too clearly how Dean presented this so-called “agreement” to him when he had first called him into his fancy office. How those green eyes had narrowed a little when Sam hesitated. How he had risen from his chair a little too abruptly, basically shooting out of his seat. How his hands had closed into angry fists hanging down his sides. And then came the threat. The ultimatum.

  
“Well?” Dean says, impatience lacing his voice. Swallowing dryly Sam shudders. Because what can he possibly do or say to change anything about the situation? He wants to say no, wants to push his boss right off his back – but is he really prepared to live his life out of a cardboard box in some dingy alley? Who knows what will happen to him then. A chill rolls through him by the thought and he clings to the mahogany desk a little tighter.

  
“Yea-Yeah…” he then manages to say.

  
“Good,” Dean just says, his voice flat. And then his fingers find the pull tab on Sam’s slacks, and the metallic sound of a zipper opening quickly follows. Before Sam even has the time to process what’s going on, a hand snakes inside his slacks, warm fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his underwear. Automatically a small gasp escapes him and he focuses his gaze on one of the pencils that didn’t roll off the desk. Even though the piece of furniture is sturdy the pencil still moves ever so slightly, the light from the lamp above reflecting in its shiny surface when Dean leans down a bit further. As his weight crushes Sam into the mahogany, he feels it right away. There’s something hard poking at the back of his upper thigh. Yes, there’s definitely something poking his thigh. Instantly his breath hitches.

  
“Let’s get down to business then,” Dean whispers in his ear. Sam swears that time freezes when he feels the big hands retract from the inside of his slacks only to settle on his hips – and with a quick yank, his clothing is pulled down to pool around his ankles, leaving him completely exposed to his boss. This time he can’t suppress a shocked sound from tumbling out of his mouth. But other than that he doesn’t say anything.

  
“Stunning,” Dean says, and he sounds a bit out of breath. But Sam doesn’t really hear it. All he can focus on is to stay down, to keep clutching the table plate. It takes every ounce of strength in him not to just get up and run. Swallowing a lump suddenly beginning to form in his throat he stares at the pencil, glares at it as if he’s drowning and it’s a buoy far out at sea. As if it’s something – anything - to hold on to. At the same time, body heat is radiating onto his skin, getting hotter by the second – only for fingers to splay themselves out on his ass cheek, groping it roughly.

  
“You work out, Sam?” Dean asks in faux interest, kneading the flesh. But Sam’s mind is spinning far too much and far too fast for him to even begin to formulate an answer. Instead, he just keeps trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. By now it feels like it’s the size of a god damn tennis ball.

  
“Spread your legs,” his boss then orders. There’s no room for negotiation. Or hesitation for that matter. Still, Sam freezes to the spot like a statue, mind gone in a whirlwind of panic. And he can’t. He can’t do this. He expects another angry slap to land on his ass, but it doesn’t come. Instead, it seems like his boss knows what he’s thinking because suddenly two hands are wedged in between his legs, pushing at the insides of his thighs. The push is resolute and doesn’t allow resistance. And Sam finds his legs slowly parting, not sure if he’s going to just crumble into a heap on the expensive carpet below – because his knees are like jelly and he’s wobbly on his feet already.

  
“There we go. But if you hesitate again our agreement is annulled. You understand?” Dean says, and there’s a fierceness in his voice that makes Sam snap for air. Like all air has been sucked out of the room all of a sudden. But he discovers that he’s somehow nodding his head.

  
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Dean says, and Sam thinks he can actually _hear_ the smile on the older man’s face. At the same moment, Dean suddenly pulls away and opens a drawer, rummaging about for something. Automatically Sam tenses even more and he wants to turn his head to see what’s going on – but his boss is quick to send him a piercing glare:

  
“Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

  
The commanding tone sends chills down Sam’s spine, and he finds himself suddenly just staring at the stupid pencil again, his cheek pressed against the smooth surface of the mahogany desk. Somewhere next to him the drawer is closed and there’s a sound of something crackling like plastic getting ripped or something. And then comes a clicking sound that Sam can’t identify at first. Knitting his brows together in fearful confusion he wants to turn and look – but of course, he doesn’t. He can’t. And the surprise when cold lube drizzles down his ass crack almost makes him jolt upright, causing a shocked yelp to get stuck somewhere in his throat. Still, he manages to stay where he is. He’s visibly shaking, but he stays. And some tiny voice in his head whispers that he should be grateful that Dean actually shows him the kindness of using lube in the first place.

  
“It’s cold. I know,” Dean muses. And then suddenly two slick fingers follow the drizzle of lube and begin to circle Sam’s entrance, rubbing and prodding.

  
Instantly Sam sucks in a sharp breath between gritted teeth. He’s never been touched there before, and the sensation is so alien that he doesn’t know what to do with it. All he wants is to shake off the intruding digits, rid himself of that strange and way too intimate feeling and just bolt right out of the door.

  
“Relax,” Dean instructs – no, orders – and the fingers push harder. A strangled sound escapes Sam even though he tries to keep it in.

  
“I haven’t got all day,” his boss says, clearly getting impatient once more. And Sam tries his best to make his stiff muscles soften just a tiny bit, tries to convince himself that it’s really in his best interest to do as he’s told. But how can he?

  
“I said, relax!” Dean snaps, and a dress shoe aggressively nudges at the inside of Sam’s ankle, forcing his legs to part further. Gritting his teeth Sam squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget where he is and what is happening. Maybe if he imagines lying on some beach somewhere, soaking up sun, and listening to the soft sound of waves crashing in the distance he’ll be able to just go lax. Go pliant. Like he normally would while sunbathing. But no matter how hard he tries his mind isn’t having it. He’s still right here. Trapped between a fancy mahogany desk and his boss’s sturdy frame, naked ass in the air and exposed.

  
“Fine. But it’s not going to be as pleasurable for you when you keep clenching like that!” Dean huffs – and suddenly he pushes a lot harder. With a quick jab of his finger, the tip slips inside, and Sam has to suffocate a loud cry that wants to leap out of him. Dean doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he begins to wiggle the digit, curling it and pushing it in deeper in a determined fashion that has Sam suddenly panting and sweating. His fingers grab the edge of the desk even harder, and he swears that he can hear the slight crackle of tendons straining. Behind him Dean keeps trying to work him open, one finger turning to two way too fast when impatience gets the better of him. It’s too fast. There’s no time to adjust. A guttural noise is ripped from Sam’s throat, the sting of the stretch spreading like red-hot tendrils right up his spine.

  
“Stop whining,” his boss orders, moving his fingers like scissors and gradually forcing the narrow channel to expand. It burns like nothing Sam has ever felt before, and he has to fight not to let out the sounds that constantly try to escape him. By now sweat is beading on his forehead, fat lines running down his face to form wet pools on the mahogany. He wants to beg his boss to just slow down, to give him some time – but he knows that it will fall on deaf ears. And he can’t risk angering him either and compromise everything. But suddenly the whole cardboard box life sounds less awful than before. Because what can be worse than this?

  
“That’ll do it,” Dean says, and Sam lets out a gasp when the fingers slip out of his ass, leaving it with a wet pop. A weird soreness is quick to spread, but at least that sharp sting is gone. Thank god. But then there’s the sound of a zipper opening. It pierces Sam’s ears like a bullet would one of those paper targets at the range, shredding the silence. It’s followed by the crackling sound of his boss fidgeting with something, that plastic-like sound from before filling Sam’s ears again. It sounds like something thin tears. Like a wrapper or something. And then it finally dawns on him: It’s a condom. There’s no doubt in his mind now. His boss is putting on a god damn condom. He’s going to do this. Instantly his heart rate spikes and he finds himself questioning why the hell he’s still here. Why isn’t he running? But before he can speculate any further there’s a slick sound when Dean lubes himself up.

_  
‘No, no, no,’_ the little voice in Sam’s head shrieks somewhere in the back of his mind. This can’t be happening. But it is. Because not many seconds pass before he feels something warm and thick press in between his ass cheeks to find his entrance, a blunt pressure quickly building. Too quickly.

  
“Nngggh!” Sam hears himself grunt, failing to bite back the sound completely. But it doesn’t come out in full volume either. It just sounds sort of like a halfhearted groan cut in half, dying on his tongue before it can leave his mouth properly.

  
“If you can’t be quiet I’ll have to stuff something in that mouth of yours,” Dean grumbles in annoyance. And then he pushes harder. A lot harder. With a determined roll of his hips, the tip of his dick breaches the furled muscle, forcing the head to slip inside the tight heat. A deep moan instantly escapes him when he feels Sam’s body hug him so tight that it borders on being painful – but it’s almost drowned out by the panicked cry leaving the young man in response.

  
“What did I tell you!?” Dean hisses, and before Sam has the chance to react his boss is draped over his back, a hand clamped over his mouth.

  
“And what part of it didn’t you understand?” he adds in something that sounds close to a snarl. But it isn’t really a question. Not when Sam can’t possibly provide an answer. Right now he’s helplessly whimpering into Dean’s palm, hands scrabbling across the desk to grab something to hold on to when the table plate suddenly didn’t seem to be enough to ground him anymore. Even the pencil is rolling off the desk to fall to the floor, disappearing somewhere on the carpet. And then Dean pushes in deeper. As his thick length is driven further inside with barely enough lube to slick the way, Sam tries to let out the yelp that suddenly wants to rush out of his mouth – but it just turns into a low, guttural sound when it’s caught by Dean’s hand.

  
“Damn… You’re tight,” his boss dead-pans. A grunt makes it out and he pushes a little harder – and finally, he is buried to the hilt in Sam’s body, heavy balls pressed flush against the younger man’s. A stuttered cry is muffled by Dean’s palm when the narrow channel is forced to accommodate the invasion, walls stretching and expanding fast enough to make stars explode behind Sam’s closed eyelids. And Dean doesn’t stay where he is for very long. Instead of waiting for the trembling body to adjust he begins to pull back out, the flared head of his cock only stopping when it catches on Sam’s rim. And then he thrusts back in. The result is a vulgar slap of skin on skin, reverberating in the room. It’s followed by a whimper from Sam combined with a throaty moan from the man behind him and it all mixes and blends into a cacophony of bizarre sounds. Dirty sounds.

  
“Gonna be quiet now, aren’t you?” Dean asks, his hot breath hitting Sam’s nape in rapid puffs of air. But before Sam can begin to think of an answer, the hand covering his mouth suddenly pushes two of its fingers into his mouth. A choked sound tries to make it out, but it just turns into a small cough when the fingers wipe back and forth across his tongue. Should he bite? He wants to bite.

  
“Suck.”

  
The command is short. Simple, even. Still, it feels like a slap in the face, mean and nonnegotiable and hanging in the air like a suffocating blanket. Sam’s mind races. The urge to let his teeth sink into the intruding digits is strong and almost overpowers all logical thought left in his brain. Still, he finds himself closing his lips around the fingers hesitantly. _‘What are you doing?’_ his mind whispers somewhere, but he ignores it. It’s not like he actually wants to do this. But what choice does he have? Automatically his lips quiver around his boss’s fingers and he convinces himself to just suck on them, the calloused skin feeling strange on his tongue. It’s reluctant. But he is doing as he’s told, tries his best to keep from whimpering when the digits push deeper into his mouth, accompanied by a moan from Dean.

  
“That’s it. Good boy,” he says under his breath, and the praise makes goosebumps form everywhere on Sam’s skin in a matter of seconds. And apparently, his boss is really enjoying the feeling of his mouth because a third finger joins the other two, pushing almost all the way down into his throat. Right away Sam begins to gag, the provocation too intense not to react. His boss doesn’t care, it seems. Undeterred he just keeps fucking his fingers in and out of Sam’s mouth – doing it in perfect sync with his thrusts. And they grow faster. Much faster. And harder as well.

  
A high-pitched mewl slips out around Dean’s fingers when Sam is rocked into the desk, each thrust pushing his hip bones into the edge of the table plate with enough force to almost make the desk wobble. He’ll definitely have bruises tomorrow. But that’s the least of Sam’s worries right now. All he can focus on, all he can feel is the sensation of being impaled by the thick cock that keeps entering him over and over, hot and slick and far too big. It feels like he is being split in two. It’s too intense. Small grunts have begun to leave Dean with each thrust, and his fingers are basically hooking themselves over Sam’s teeth, pulling and forcing him to arch his back a little to give him even better access. To make him stick his ass into the air just a bit higher. _‘Like some bitch in heat,’_ Sam thinks to himself dizzily and a wave of nausea rolls through him when his boss’s free hand reaches around him to pinch one of his nipples. It stings when the small nub is twisted – but it’s nothing compared to the burning sensation in his ass.

  
“You like this, don’t you?” Dean grunts, breathing heavily against the side of Sam’s neck as he keeps rolling his hips, driving himself into the tight heat again and again. And Sam wants to just scream from the top of his lungs. Because no, he doesn’t fucking like it. He doesn’t like it one bit. But it’s not like he can say that, now is it? It’s not like he can say _anything_ with three fingers stuffed in his mouth.

  
“Like havin’ my dick inside you, Sam? Mm?” his boss moans, ignoring how ropes of drool are dangling from the young man’s mouth and running down over his fingers as he keeps fucking him with them. A low, protesting sound combined with a cough leaves Sam, but Dean just hushes him.

  
“I think you do…” he says and at the same moment, his free hand travels below Sam’s waist only to wrap around his dick. Horror instantly floods Sam’s mind, stealing the air from his lungs in less than a split second. _‘No, this can’t be happening!’_ his mind shrieks when he feels how his boss’s fingers begin to stroke his length. His way too hard length. _‘You’re sick!’_ his mind automatically spits at him. And it’s right. It has to be. How can he possibly have grown hard from this? From his own violation? He can think of nothing more repulsive or scary or wrong in the entire world – yet still, his dick twitches with interest by Dean’s touch, throbs with every thrust of the man’s hips. And if he’s not mistaken pre-cum is beginning to sprout on the tip of it, oozing from the slit already as if he’s loving every bit of what’s happening to him.

  
“Knew, ugh… Knew you were a slut from the moment… Fr-From the moment I saw you…” Dean moans, cutting himself off with each thrust. His hand is firmly tugging on Sam’s length, pulling the foreskin back and forth over the sensitive head of his dick and forcing more pre-cum to drool from its tip. And the young man twitches. Even though he is almost choking on the fingers that keep mercilessly fucking his throat he can’t distract himself from the heat starting to pool in his groin. And the burning sensation in his ass is slowly subsiding, giving way to a strange soreness that feels horrible and sort of good at the same time. _‘No, no, no,’_ his mind whispers from somewhere, but it’s like he can’t really hear it anymore. The roaring of his pulse in his ears is simply too loud. So are the repetitive slaps of skin on skin and the throaty moans coming from his boss.

  
“Takin’ me so good,” Dean grunts against the shell of his ear – and with that he tightens his fist around Sam’s rock hard length, stroking him harder. As he lets the pad of his thumb slide back and forth over the slit to smear out more pre-cum, the young man can’t help the shudder that rolls through him – but this time it isn’t from discomfort. Well, not entirely at least. And to his horror a tiny moan tries to slip out of his mouth, only suffocated by Dean’s fingers.

  
“Shit…” Dean says, out of breath, feeling how Sam clenches around him. The hot squeeze is more than enough to make his eyes roll to the back of his head and it only spurs him on, making him thrust his hips that much faster and forgetting everything that even remotely resembles finesse. Now it’s sloppy and vicious and dirty, and Dean lets a loud groan rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

  
The sight of Sam bent over like this is amazing. Even in this undignified position, pants around his ankles, and the ugly yellow shirt bunching under his shoulder blades he looks absolutely stunning. As he lies there, gasping around Dean’s fingers and spluttering wet and hot, his hands grip the edge of the desk again, this time so hard that it’s got to physically hurt. It’s unbelievably sexy. And as Dean takes in the sight he can feel the coil in his abdomen tighten, can feel how it threatens to snap at any moment. With a breathless moan he leans down a little further:

  
“You’re gonna cum in my hand,” he says, whispering it into the young man’s ear in the tone of voice one would use when complimenting someone. But there’s nothing sweet about it. It’s blunt and resolute and it’s nothing short of an order. The words elicit another protesting cough from Sam, but even though he should be appalled there’s something brewing in the pits of his stomach that wasn’t there moments ago. Something that feels way too familiar. An all too recognizable heat that just builds and builds and builds. _‘Oh, god, no,’_ his mind whimpers, and a whole new kind of self-loathing washes through him when he realizes that he’s actually headed for a climax. When the hell did that happen? And how is it even possible? He doesn’t know.

  
“Be a good boy now,” Dean’s gruff voice says and suddenly the fingers retract from Sam’s mouth, allowing him to suck in some wheezy breaths of air. As the fingers disappear saliva dribbles down his chin to pool on the mahogany below and Sam swallows thickly when he feels his boss’s hand settle on his hip. At the same moment, his other hand strokes him a bit firmer, a bit faster – all while the thrusts grow that much meaner. But this time Dean positions himself a little differently, allowing him to angle his thrusts in a new way. And as he sinks inside and bottoms out, it feels like fire suddenly erupts in Sam’s loins and makes him see stars once again. But this time it’s different. So different. A shocked whine instantly escapes him, tumbling out of his mouth before he can suppress it. And his dick eagerly throbs. Oh god, it actually throbs. It even twitches in excitement, drooling more pre-cum while Dean’s hand keeps working it, keeps swirling up and down the shaft with scary expertise.

  
“That’s it,” Dean says and his voice sounds impossibly throaty, all husky and gravelly and dropping into an even deeper register than before. Apparently, he has noticed how Sam’s body reacts of its own accord, how his whimpers have morphed into something completely different - and obviously how his dick keeps swelling. Still, the young man clings to the desk like his life depends on it. Dean can’t help but smirk at that. It’s never fun when they’re pliant from the start, after all. No, it’s much more of a challenge when they need some… persuasion. 

  
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asks, and he can feel the tight body below shudder from his words alone – which is really answer enough. But where’s the fun in that? With a smug grin tugging on his lips Dean decides he wants just a bit more this time. Just that little extra spice which he knows the man below him isn’t willing to give but isn’t able to refuse to provide either.

  
“Answer me,” he orders, biting his bottom lip when he feels how the hot body clamps down on him like a vice. And to emphasize his words he strokes Sam’s achingly hard dick a little firmer, rubbing his thumb over the slit in circles. The reaction is instant. Sam tenses and shudders and there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that he just tried to bite back a moan. And to be honest, Dean wants to hear it. Screw being silent.

  
“Answer me, Sam!” he barks, thrusting into him hard enough to make the small reading lamp on the desk wobble. A choked yelp slips out and Sam’s hands scrabble to find something to hold on to. The edge of the desk no longer suffices at all. It’s like he can’t breathe. Can’t think. And he definitely can’t get his vocal cords to produce any coherent words right now even if he wanted to. But it’s pretty clear that his boss is not going to accept that. Far from it. No, apparently Dean wants him to surrender completely, wants him to actually put words on his own shame. To admit his arousal. But how can he? It’s beyond humiliating, and Sam is certain that his face is flushing a bright beet red that must be spreading all the way down to his chest. _‘Just get it over with,’_ the little voice in his head says in a bull-headed attempt to steer him back on track. Another rough thrust shakes him in the same moment, reminding him just how intense the heat in his groin is has grown to be. How that devilish tingle is spreading up his abdomen, up his spine, turning into a liquid fire that slowly but surely engulfs him. _‘There’s no dignity left to save anyway’_ , his mind whispers.

  
“Y-Yes…” he suddenly hears himself whimper. It’s barely audible, but it’s there. He actually said it. And it sounds so pathetic that he just wants to curl in on himself, wants to vanish into thin air and never return. He feels his boss’s hand tighten its grip on his hip in response, blunt fingernails digging into the skin.

  
“What’s that? Not sure I heard you,” Dean grunts and Sam has to hold back a moan when his prostate is hit once again. But at the same time, he wants to cry. Because why the hell does his boss have to taunt him like this? And why is the damn heat in his groin still intensifying? It feels like it’s growing into roaring flames that threaten to devour him whole. _‘Please, please, please!’_ his mind babbles. But for what exactly? Suddenly he’s not completely sure.

  
“I’m only gonna ask you one more time... And you better answer truthfully. Are you close?” Dean says, and this time his gravelly voice drops even deeper. And then he twists his fist a little - wiping his thumb across the head of Sam’s dick to collect all of the pre-cum gathered there – only to work him faster, slicking him up with his own juices. It’s too much. Instantly Sam bares his teeth in a combination of a yelp and a moan, and without even realizing it he’s frantically nodding his head.

  
“Yes…!” he whines, face scrunched up. And there it is. He finally said it and it was all too loud and clear this time. He knows that he should probably be wishing to take it back, but somehow there isn’t room for that in his head right now. Instead, all he can do is feel. Feel how he is stretched by the thick cock impaling him, how he feels so incredibly full that he’s sure his belly must be bulging. How his dick is expertly stroked, how it burns everywhere in that horrible and delicious way that makes his eyes roll back. How everything feels so perfect and so wrong all at the same time. And, oh god, his balls are drawing up.

  
“Thatta boy. Now I want you to cum for me,” Dean says, his voice a low rumble in Sam’s ear that makes shivers roll up and down his spine, zinging from one nerve ending to the next. The desk is wobbling a little with each thrust, the surface of it coated with sweat and Sam swears that the filthy sound of skin-on-skin that keeps reverberating in the office is by far the most horrendous thing he’s ever heard. And the hottest. Even his boss’s grunting is suddenly making his dick bounce with eagerness.

  
“I want you to cum in my hand like a good little slut,” Dean says and Sam can’t help the pathetic moan that suddenly spills from his mouth before he can stop it. It sounds way too needy. Wanton, even. And he knows he’s lost when his boss’s hand turns into a blur on his dick, sending zaps of red-hot pleasure through him with enough intensity to make him forget how to breathe. And the cock in his ass keeps pounding into him, keeps stretching him wide, keeps filling him up in a way that makes pleasure mix with pain to the extent where he can’t even tell them apart anymore. It’s unbearable. And it’s amazing.

  
Suddenly Sam feels his back arching, every muscle tensing in something that almost feels like a cramp – and the stars explode in his field of vision in a bright flash, nearly blinding him. It’s like his mind disappears at the same moment. Like it gets swallowed up by the sensory overload. Without thought he lets out a hoarse groan and pushes back against his boss, impaling himself further on the throbbing cock – and as Dean’s pelvis presses flush against him, pubes tickling his buttocks, he feels how his mouth drops open and his entire body stiffens. And he’s gone. Hot ropes of cum shoot from his dick in sticky gushes, running down over his boss’s hand in globs of white while Sam mindlessly bucks his hips, chasing every little bit of the orgasm. It’s too much and not enough all at once. It’s bliss and agony wrapped into one big, perfect mess. And it’s like he just keeps coming, his dick angrily twitching in Dean’s hand while more semen drools onto the desk and the carpet below, staining it in milky white blotches.

  
“Fuck…!” Dean groans, feeling how Sam is clamping down on him hard enough to make it hurt. But that little tinge of pain proves to be all it takes for Dean to follow him over the edge, pushing him toward his own climax so fast that he lets out a growl loud enough to bounce off the walls. And he fucks into the hot body below with abandon, reveling in the way it hugs his cock so tight that it’s bound to milk him dry even though he’s wearing a condom. As he feels the silky walls flutter around him, stretching to accommodate how he grows, he bares his teeth in a snarl.

  
“Oh!! Oh, f-fuckkk!” he grunts, slamming against Sam so hard that he rips a whimper from the young man. And then he can feel how his hips stutter, his thrusts growing erratic – and he buries himself to the hilt only to suddenly still with a breathless moan. With thighs shaking he grips Sam tight, mind gone in a mental white-out while the condom begins to fill.

  
In response another whimper spills from Sam when he feels his walls being forced to expand further around the almost too thick cock and he bites down on his knuckles, screwing his eyes shut. He feels beyond full. Stuffed. And his boss is practically slumped over his back now, panting heavily into his nape while he slowly begins to come down from his high. The cock in Sam's ass is still practically pulsing though, pumping jet after jet of sperm into the condom and for a brief moment, he wonders if it’s even able to contain it all. The hard plane of his boss’s chest is resting on his back and his pelvis is still firmly pressed against him, cock buried balls deep as it empties.

  
With a shiver rolling through him Sam’s post-orgasmic bliss starts to finally fade, the stars in his vision dissipating. He breathes in a big mouthful of air, trying to get his racing heart under control. He shouldn’t have. Because it returns him to reality so fast that the room suddenly seems to spin and his eyes shoot wide open. And he realizes what just happened. _‘Oh, god,’_ his mind bursts out in disbelief. How could this happen? How could he let himself go this far? And more importantly: How could he possibly get off on it? _‘Oh, god,’_ his mind repeats dumbly and he snaps for more air.

  
“You… You are one tight fuck…” Dean pants into the crook of his neck, sounding as if he’s trying to collect himself. Right now he seems to just be taken aback by the way Sam’s body trembles under him and how his walls automatically flutter and squeeze some last drops of cum out into the condom. Dean is seemingly enjoying himself quite a bit. But Sam is certain that his face must have turned crimson now and all he can think about is to get his boss off him, get that weight off his back and that solid cock out of his ass. But he doesn’t dare to speak. Or move. Instead, he’s just panting into the mahogany of the desk, trying to will himself not to shoot upright and run out the door.

  
“Knew you’d probably be pretty tight, but damn…” Dean says, ripping Sam from his train of thought when he begins to pull out. The drag on his insides makes the young man let out a whine and he has to fight not to squirm. He can’t squirm. He can’t anger his boss and risk it all. Not now.

  
“And look at the mess you made,” Dean says accusingly, lightly kneading Sam’s flaccid dick and making him jump from the overstimulation. It feels like electric currents are zapping through him, making him flinch and grit his teeth and clench his ass all at the same time. And as a result Dean finally slips out of him completely, ripping a low mewl from him when suddenly his walls try to contract around nothing. He feels so empty now. So… used. Dirty. Still, he doesn’t dare to move. Instead, he stays where he is, bent over the desk and with his ass in the air, hole gaping and fluttering while his face burns with humiliation. Behind him, he can hear his boss take off the condom and with a wet sound, it lands in the bin next to the desk.

  
“Clean yourself up. I don’t have all day,” Dean then huffs, and his voice is laced with both amusement and impatience. At the same moment, a box of Kleenex is placed on the desk. And Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. 

  
With a jerky movement, he straightens up, immediately wincing when a sharp soreness shoots up his spine. It burns. Just like his face, only worse. Far worse. He wants to just pull up his pants and rush out of the office, but he knows that he can’t. Not like this. Because there’s no doubt in his mind that both the front and the back of his pants will all too quickly show everyone exactly what happened in here. No, if he wants to avoid some telltale dark blotches staining the fabric he has to follow his boss’s order.

  
With shaking hands he grabs some Kleenex and quickly wipes his crotch, trying to remove as much of his own release as possible. It already feels cold on his skin, clinging to his pubic hair like a gooey gel and he can’t help but cringe. And the fact that he can feel his boss watching him from behind doesn’t make it any less cringeworthy. He should really turn around, he realizes. But somehow he can’t get himself to do so, can’t get himself to face the man. Can’t look into those predatory, green eyes right now. It’s too much.

  
“You know what an office like this costs?” Dean suddenly asks. Frowning in confusion Sam doesn’t answer. How the hell is he supposed to know that? And why does it matter? It’s not relevant. The only thing that matters is to get out of here and forget that this ever happened.

  
“It costs exactly what the view is worth. A skyline like that isn’t cheap. But let me tell you, I’d take a fourth-floor office any day for the same price if it came with this view,” Dean says, eyeing the young man up and down with a smirk. Sam can practically feel his gaze burn holes in his skin and he is confident that he can actually hear a smug smile forming on the bastard’s face as well. It’s disgusting. Without much thought he spins around, unable to keep his back turned, and automatically he covers his genitals with the soiled napkins. But that only earns him a huff.

  
“Don’t be silly, Sam. And don’t pretend you didn’t like what we just did,” Dean says, clearly not pleased. Sam just shakes his head a little, careful to avoid eye contact. The heat in his cheeks is almost painful and he just wishes that his boss would let him walk out the door and spare him the damn chitchat. Quickly he grabs a new pair of Kleenex and wipes the excess lube from his inner thighs and his ass, wincing at the soreness. It stings, and he scrunches up his face as soon as the paper makes contact with the raw skin in between his ass cheeks. And his boss just keeps watching, his lips curved up into a twisted smile while he keeps an eye on every little move Sam makes. Why does he keep looking at him like that?

  
Nervous and humiliated Sam discards the sticky napkins, putting them into the bin next to the condom, before hurrying to pull up his underwear and pants. He hurries so much that the clothes bunch awkwardly and he suddenly seems to have forgotten how to close a button. Fumbling to zip himself he doesn’t miss how Dean keeps staring at him.

  
“Not the chatty one, huh?” his boss asks and his smug smile just seems to grow.

  
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sam manages to say under his breath, finally popping the button through the hole on his pants. He’s a mess. The yellow shirt is wrinkled and damp with sweat and his slacks are equally messy, the press folds disrupted and no longer visible.

  
“Really? Suits me fine actually,” Dean huffs.

  
“Now, if you don’t mind… I have a meeting in five minutes. I suggest you go back to work,” he adds, correcting his tie a little. _‘So, I still have a job?’_ Sam’s mind pipes up and relief washes through him. It’s tainted though. He doesn’t really know if it’s bad or good or something in between. He just knows that he did this and now he can go. Go work and then go home to his apartment and forget. Just forget. It’ll probably require some serious binge-shopping in the local liquor store though. But he can go. He can actually go now.

  
Nodding his head Sam hurries past his boss and walks on way too wobbly legs towards the door, making sure to keep as big a distance between them as possible. He hates how he can’t seem to walk properly. Will anyone notice? Oh, god, and he probably won’t be able to sit down either without looking ‘funny’. What if his colleagues find out? _‘They won’t,’_ his mind says. But he hates it, hates everything about this. Especially the smile which is still plastered on his boss’s face. And Dean is just turning, following him with his gaze as he places a shaking hand on the doorknob, eager to leave.

  
“Oh, and Sam?”

  
Instantly Sam freezes, not daring to open the door just yet. Instead, his fingers just rest on the cool metal knob, goosebumps spreading all the way from what feels like the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

  
“See you next Thursday,” his boss then says, the smile growing toothy.

  
The words ring around in Sam’s head as his fingers clutch the doorknob. Did he hear him right? _‘No, no, no,’_ the voice in the back of his mind whispers. _‘You must be mistaken,’_ it tries while he feels his heart rhythm slowly but surely picks up speed. Stunned he cracks his mouth open:

  
“What? B-But I thought—“

  
“Oh, you thought this was a one-time thing?” Dean says, his voice dark and amused at the same time.

  
“No, this is the agreement. And I expect you to be here on Thursday at 10:30 am. Sharp. Do I make myself clear?” he says, and Sam can hear the threat in his voice just fine. Instantly his chest tightens. How had he not known? And what is he supposed to do? _‘Cardboard box,’_ his mind reminds him.

  
“Do I make myself clear, Sam?!” his boss’s voice snaps at him, making him jump. Suppressing the sudden urge to cry Sam tries his best to swallow down the protest that wants to escape him. And he manages to nod his head.

  
“Good. Now go make yourself useful elsewhere,” Dean says and Sam can hear him take a seat in the big leather chair behind the desk. Gulping down a lump suddenly formed in his throat Sam twists the doorknob and stumbles out into the hallway, nearly tripping on his own feet in the process. Out. He has to get out. He hurries to close the door behind him, completely ignoring the victorious grin his boss sends him. And as he makes his way past the reception, he doesn’t acknowledge the knowing look on the secretary’s face either. It’s only a tightlipped smile. That’s all it is. Because no one knows. No one can ever know. 


End file.
